


And Weather In the Heart Alike

by carleton97



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-28
Updated: 2008-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:12:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carleton97/pseuds/carleton97
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a long road for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Weather In the Heart Alike

**Author's Note:**

> features always a girl!Patrick

The first time Bob ever sees Trish, he can't actually see her at first. He's twenty, home from school for Thanksgiving, and his buddy Kyle drags him out to a club to see some band that _sucks_.

When Bob tells Kyle this, he shrugs and says, "They've got a fill-in drummer tonight."

But, no.

Whoever the drummer is hidden behind the kit, he's about four hundred times better than the rest of the band combined, but Bob's pretty sure Kyle's trying to hook up with the bass player, so he doesn't say that. When the fucking _eternal_ set finally ends, Bob follows Kyle as he pushes through the scene kids to the stage. He was right about Kyle and the bassist - the guy drops off the stage and into Kyle's personal space as soon as he sees him. Bob rolls his eyes and turns back to the stage, hoping to catch the drummer to talk shop (and maybe something more, if he's interested - yeah, he was that good).

Bob likes to think that he's not easily shocked. He's been playing and teching shows since he was old enough to sneak into clubs without getting caught and he's seen some shit go down, man. Hell, he knows Pete Wentz, but when this absolutely _tiny_ girl climbs out from behind the kit he actually feels his jaw drop.

It's not just that she's little (but she really is, he'd be surprised if she was over five foot), it's that she's so obviously _young_. Like, younger than jailbait young. So young that the guy Bob knows owns the bar is hovering around her nervously as she proficiently packs up and carries out the drum kit.

The vaguely dirty thoughts he'd been having about the anonymous, obviously talented drummer during the set sort of make Bob feel like a creepy pedo and he leaves the stage area without talking to her.

***

The first time Trish ever sees Bob, she doesn't actually see him at all. She's fifteen and at a show that sounds a thousand times better than the last time she saw these guys. They're not the worst band on the scene, but she's pretty sure they haven't improved this much in a month.

She's always known a good sound tech could make or break a show, but this is the best example of it she's ever heard. She sort of wants to head towards the sound booth and pick the tech's brain, but she sees a bouncer jerk his thumb at her and knows she's got to go.

***

The first time Bob hears Trish sing is when Fall Out Boy joins up for the back end of Warped '04. He's backstage because he's known Wentz for years and is actually glad for the crazy little dude. He's been hearing good things about the band and they're solid.

It's the lead singer, though, that totally rocks his world. She's short, really short, but not all bony like most of the chicks in the audience and she's kicking ass on rhythm guitar, her hands moving through the chords like they're nothing. Bob's heard through the grapevine that she writes the music and deciphers Wentz's crazy talk into lyrics, too. All of that is awesome and sort of makes him fall a little in love, but it's her voice, god, her _huge_ fucking voice that's making his jeans feel tight.

It's halfway through their set, when Wentz is bullshitting to the audience, that she looks up from tuning her guitar and smiles over her shoulder at their other guitarist and Bob recognizes her. The jailbait drummer from like five years ago.

Jesus.

***

The first time Bob meets Trish is a party towards the end of Warped '04.

'Meet' is probably too loose of a term, though.

Bob is hanging out with the bulk of My Chemical Romance, trying to distract Frank and Mikey from Gerard and Bert's conspicuous exit, when a sizable enough ruckus to distract most people from partying starts moving from the bus area towards the bonfire.

"Oh, fuck. I hope that's not Gerard." Frank scrambles up Ray's back as he's talking, trying to get a better view.

Bob hopes so too.

When Pete Wentz flings himself behind Bob, it becomes obvious it is not Gerard at all. Pete wraps his arms around Bob's chest and forcibly pulls until he's between Pete and his lead singer. She ( _Trish_ Bob's mind whispers) is soaked in ... something gel-like; her hair is hanging in lank clumps around her head and her t-shirt and jeans are clinging to her in a way that Bob would appreciate way more if it didn't look like she was about two minutes from a total meltdown. Her face is red and she's panting from anger and exertion. She tries to dart around Bob to get to Pete, but the little fucker is stronger than he looks and he jerks Bob around in a half circle.

"What's wrong, Patty?"

Trish's eyes narrow and she actually screams in rage for a second, "I'm going to _gut_ you, you cocksucker."

Pete tsks from his hiding place and Bob thinks he's either a lot braver or a lot stupider than he ever thought. "Now, Patricia, you're not making a good first impression on - oh, hey Bryar! How've you been, man?"

Bob shrugs, keeping an eye on Trish when it looks like she's contemplating going _through_ him to get at Pete, "Can't complain. You?"

"Things are awesome, Bobby," Pete hugs Bob for a second, "Where was I? Oh, yeah. Trish, you're making yourself look bad in front of Bob."

Trish feints to the left, totally faking Pete out, before reaching around Bob and getting a handful of Pete's hair and heaving until she trips him to the ground. She gets in one good kick to his ribs before someone - one of Pete's entourage - grabs her around the waist and hauls her back towards the bus village. She's yelling and fighting the entire way, squirming in the guy's arms and, at one point, Bob's pretty sure she twists her head back to bite him.

Pete struggles to his knees and uses the hem of Bob's shirt to pull himself to his feet, wincing when he presses on his ribs. He watches the spectacle of Trish being hauled off to where the hoses are set up and shakes his head before starting to follow, "She's got a bit of an anger management problem sometimes."

"You think?" Frank finally slides down from Ray's back and picks up his beer again.

Bob knows he probably shouldn't have found the whole thing inappropriately hot.

But he totally did.

***

The first time Trish sees Bob play is MCR's first performance at Warped '05. She knew they'd replaced their old drummer, but she's spent the past few months a little too worried about her own band imploding to be concerned about anyone else's.

She doesn't like to think she's _that_ girl, but she's pretty sure she's in love by the end of 'Vampires'.

***

The first time Trish meets Bob (that she remembers), is about two weeks into Warped '05. She's on Pete recovery duty and everyone already knows that the key to finding Pete is finding Mikey Way. She knows herself well enough to know that she'd probably think the whole thing was adorable if she hadn't nearly gone blind walking into the back lounge of the bus a couple days before.

When she rounds the corner of the MCR bus, she's sort of surprised to see four of them sprawled out on camp chairs, drinking diet Coke and reading comics, "Um. Hey."

"Hey, Trish," Gerard waves and lets his copy of _The Authority_ drop to his lap. "Diet Coke?"

"No, thanks. Have you guys seen my bassist?"

Frankie snorts into the pages of his _The Authority_ , "Why do you think we're all out here?"

Trish makes a face she's pretty sure is an exact copy of the one Gerard is making, only without the gagging noise. It's awkward for a second after that because, bassist love aside, Trish doesn't really know these guys all that well. Gerard had pretty much been a mess last year and the rest of the band had been busy trying to keep him together.

Plus, she's trying really hard not to stare at their new drummer.

It's sort of hard, though. He's all big and blond and shining in the sun as he pages through _Batman_. Trish is glad, most of the time, that her whole band is pocket-sized since it makes her feel less like a Hobbit, but she misses being around ( _with_ ) someone who could just surround her.

"Oh, hey. Have you met Bob yet?" Gerard sits up a little and waves between the two of them.

"No, I - "

"Yeah, you have," Frankie has a look on his face Trish doesn't really trust. "You probably don't remember, though."

"No, I'm pretty sure I haven't." The fuck? Trish doesn't really drink all that much, and she knows she's never been drunk enough to actually lose time. She glances over at Bob and he's smirking a bit.

Crap.

"It was at the end of last year," Ray, at least, seems apologetic. "You were, um, mad at Pete?"

Oh, jesus. She vaguely remembers a tall, man-shaped blockade between her and Pete at one point. Trish feels herself turning bright red and wishes she could blame it on the sun. She is never, ever going to be able to look Bob Bryar in the face again, "Um, if you could send Pete our way when he surfaces? Thanks."

She isn't sure about discretion, but _retreat_ is totally the better part of valor.

***

The first time Bob seriously thinks about having sex with Trish, she's just finished 'Venom'.

***

The first time Trish seriously thinks about having sex with Bob, he's just picked Frankie up, tossed him over his shoulder, and walked back to the buses without even stopping his conversation with Andy.

***

 _Interlude: TABLE_

"I now call this meeting to order!" Pete bangs on the dinette table with a coffee mug until Andy reaches over and jerks it out of his hand. He shoots Andy a dirty look and clears his throat, "Today's first order of business - "

"Pete. Why are we here?" Gerard gestures to the cramped kitchen of the Fall Out Boy tour bus.

"I was getting to that!" Pete clears his throat again, "The first order - "

"Hey, where are Trish and Bob?" Joe looks up from the copy of _Spin_ in his lap and glances around the crowded room.

"Okay, the next motherfucker who interrupts me is getting their bunk pissed in, I swear to fucking god."

Frank opens his mouth to say something that will undoubtedly end up with the whole MCR bus smelling like pee and, really, now that Gerard is sober, that's not something he thinks he has to deal with, so he claps his hand over Frank's mouth and smiles at Pete, "Please, carry on."

"Right. Okay." Pete takes a calming breath and sets both hands flat on the table, "Today's first order of business is to establish reciprocity in the matter of the attraction Patricia Marie Stump holds for one Robert Bryar."

"Oh, my god. Trish is going to kill you," Andy buries his face in his hands.

Pete's fascinated by the entirely silent conversation MCR seems to have with just eyebrows and quirked mouths. After a few seconds, Ray nods decisively and says, "Established."

" _Awesome_." Pete doesn't even bother to contain his gleeful clapping. "The second order of business..."

Thus, TABLE* is born.

* Trish And Bob Love Experience (Pete isn't allowed to create any more acronyms. Ever.)

***

The first time Trish and Bob live together is in L.A. when they're both recording their albums. Neither is exactly sure how it happens since Trish had been planning on staying with Pete and Bob had specifically rented his own apartment to get away from people for awhile, but Pete decides he's going to gut and remodel his house at the last minute and everyone else they know in L.A. has had their housing set for weeks.

So, they're roommates.

***

The first time Bob sees Trish in less than two layers, they're both home from recording and sweating in their dark apartment thanks to a rolling blackout. It's after midnight and Bob's pretty sure it's about one hundred eight degrees in his bedroom, even with the door and windows open. He's on his way to take another cool shower when he glances through her open door.

She's sprawled out across her bed in nothing more than a skimpy tank top and somebody's boxers - Joe's probably since Pete and Andy are scrawny little fucks - dead to the world. There's so much _skin_ that Bob almost doesn't know where to look first.

Not that he should be looking at all since Trish would probably castrate him if she woke up. Then again, maybe not.

He's not blind and he's read FOB's press, so he knows Trish has some body issues, (which is _retarded_ since she's just about the most gorgeous woman ever), but she's also basically lived in a van with Pete and Joe and Andy since she was fifteen, so she's sort of lax about closing doors sometimes.

 _("What? Pete would just open it anyway, so I learned not to bother."_

"Even the bathroom?"

"After I busted him in the mouth, he stopped opening the curtain. Mostly."

"But he still sits in the bathroom and chats with you while you're showering."

"The one time I tried to lock the door, he wouldn't stop banging on the door or shut up about the distance between us and how much he missed me, how much he needed me, how he was already forgetting what I looked like blah blah blah. I was like, 'Fuck off, Pete, I'm washing my hair.' But then somebody gave him a butter knife and he pried that bitch open to get to me, so I stopped fighting it."

"And your parents let you tour with him?"

"He's strangely charming.")

Bob sort of doesn't get her issues.

***

The first time Trish walks in on Bob in the shower is totally an accident.

It's ass o'clock in the morning and the seventeen or so bottles of water she drank at the studio yesterday have been waking her up every couple of hours. She just wants to pee and sleep until her alarm or her bladder wakes her up again. She's curled up against her pillows before it even registers that the light was on when she opened the door. That the shadow behind the frosted glass door was way too tall to be Pete. That the whole time she was using the toilet and washing her hands, the shower was running.

Is still running.

She remembers Bob saying something about an early interview for an east coast radio station and wants to die. She _peed_ while Bob fucking Bryar was in the shower. Naked.

She totally blames Pete and his complete lack of personal boundaries.

Trish buries her head under a pillow and figures she can feign sleep until the lack of fresh air kills her. Or, you know, until Bob's out of the apartment and she can spend some quality time thinking about naked, wet Bob. She eventually gives up on the asphyxiation and has to tunnel a little oxygen path because Bob is taking forever to finish. Not that that's out of the ordinary. Bob seems to be as weirdo and OCD about showering as he is about dishes in the living room. She sometimes wonders how he survives on tour when everyone and everything is just fucking gross.

When he finally, _finally_ , leaves the apartment, Trish has her vibrator out and gets off, like, three times in five minutes. When she's nothing but a panting, sweaty heap on the bed, there's a minute where she's a little afraid she broke herself.

***

Okay, so it's not the first time Bob's jerked off in the shower thinking of Trish, but it is the first time he's done it after she wandered into the bathroom while he's naked.

He thinks maybe he's imagining things when he first feels the draft from the open door, but when he turns his head, blinking water out of his eyes, he can see Trish's outline using the toilet before washing her hands, all sleep-drunk and clumsy. He's frozen in place, hands in his own hair and thick trails of shampoo sliding down his back, until she closes the door behind her.

He hasn't really been planning on jerking off that morning - he's running a little late as it stands - but after that, it's definitely on the schedule. It's a mishmash of images in his head as he reaches down and starts to jerk off - Trish sliding into the shower with him, "Mind if I join you?" All water soaked hair and slick, curvy body as he boosts her up on to the ledge running the length of the tiled shower.

Or in his bed, his mouth all over her body.

Fucking her slowly as the steam from the shower swirls around them.

Pinning her down, bruising her hips when he goes down on her for _hours_.

He has to catch himself on the ledge when he comes, his hand slipping a little on the wet tile. It takes him a minute to even out his breathing and his brain is still sluggish as he rinses off and turns off the water. It's not until he's staring at himself in the mirror, brushing his teeth, that he starts feeling like a dirty, pervy, asshole freak.

***

 _Interlude: Confessors_

"... lot of things together, you know? I mean, 99% of the dudes I've dated just don't get it and I end up looking like a bitch and dumping them because they're jealous of Pete. _Pete!_ He's my best friend, Andy. That trumps some starfucker who wants into my pants."

"You have to admit that, from the outside, your relationship with Pete looks strange."

"That's what I don't get! Best friends here. What's so strange about that?"

"Trish, that last photo shoot for _Rolling Stone_ , what was it?"

"Uh, that Adaams family wedding thing."

"And those photos that hit TMZ in March?"

"Me and Pete asleep on the couch?"

"How many times has Pete grabbed your boob in public?"

"Too many to count, you know that, Andy!"

"What happened to that one guy in Denver who grabbed you?"

"I punched him in the junk."

"I'm just saying that our heteronormative society has certain expectations of male-female interaction and you and Pete resist easy categorization."

"Basically, everyone thinks we're fucking."

"Yes."

"Well, shit."

"But Bob knows you're not, so you should go for it."

***

"I still don't understand why you don't just go for it."

"Come on, Gerard. We've been over this."

"Exactly! We've been over how you think she hangs the moon and she has cartoon hearts in her eyes when she looks at you and you should just stop being a pussy and have a dozen little drummer babies."

"I've told you, I feel all skeezy - "

"Blah blah, saw her when she was a kid, yeah, I know the story, Bob. Get over it, she's like twenty now."

"But she wasn't!"

"You realize you were, like, twelve once too, right? You didn't spring full grown from your mom's skull."

"You're missing the point! And stop talking about my mom."

"You know what this situation needs?"

"I'm afraid to even ask."

"This needs the magic touch of your Fairy Gerardmother. Father. Whatever."

"Oh, dear god."

***

 _Interlude: TABLE talk_

"OK, I call this meeting of TABLE to order." Pete has acquired an actual gavel since the last meeting, "The first order of business has two parts. A) Why is Trish complaining about not getting laid in forever and b) why is she complaining to Andy and not me?"

Andy raises his hand, "If I may address the second part first?" At Pete's nod, he nudges Joe, "Joseph and I have prepared a dramatic reenactment of last week's conversation between Trish and one Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III."

Andy arranges himself on Pete's couch, his body language eerily mimicking Trish's. As soon as he's settled, Joe wedges himself sideways into the small space between Andy and the arm of the couch and wraps his legs around his waist and his arms around his neck. He rests his forehead on Andy's temple and heaves a giant sigh, "You know I'd do anything for you, don't you, Tricky Trish?"

Andy reaches up with one hand and pets Joe's shoulder, "I know, Petey."

"And that you can tell me anything."

"I know."

"I want you to be happy."

"I know."

"Seriously, Trish. _Anything_." He licks Andy's cheek.

"You're freaking me out."

Andy and Joe take their bows and duck the pens Pete throws at them, "Fuck you guys, that wasn't what happened. Besides that doesn't answer my question."

"It totally does, dude," Frank looks up from where he's sprawled across Gerard and Ray's laps, "Trish is afraid you'll show up at their apartment with condoms and porn and lock the two of them in a room until they fuck."

"Plus, I'm pretty sure she doesn't want to be singing _Trish Made Me Change the Title of this Song (But She's Totally In Love With Bob Bryar)_ on your next album," Mikey doesn't even bother to look up at Pete.

"Fuck _all_ you guys. Anyway, that doesn't answer the question of why Bob hasn't hit that yet." He waves off Andy chiding look at his phrasing, "I'm just saying, is there something you haven't told us about Bob? Is he gay? A eunuch? what?"

"Hey, how is this Bob's fault?" Frank struggles his way off the couch and kicks at the table, "Bob's totally hot, so why hasn't _Trish_ hit that? Is she a lesbian? Frigid? What?"

"Oh, you did _not_ ," Pete's clambered on top of the table and is halfway across it before Joe gets a hold of him and drags him back into his chair.

"You probably don't want to say things like that about Trish," Andy doesn't look much calmer than Pete, actually, "We've all gone to the mat with bitchy scene kids for her, whether she knows about it or not."

"We just stopped telling her after she kicked Pete in the balls for 'interfering'," Joe has Pete in a sort of bastardized arm lock that's a lot closer to cuddling than wrestling.

Gerard pulls Frank back to the couch, "Frank was out of line for saying those things about Trish, but so was Pete, right?"

Pete wiggles free of Joe and flops back in his chair, "You're right. That was uncalled for. I just don't understand why they're both so..."

"Retarded?" Ray offers when it's obvious Pete can't find the words to express the complete and utter obliviousness of their friends.

Pete deflates a little, "Yeah."

***

The first time Trish sees Bob after they move out of what she lovingly called "Porn Star Central", is at the Summer 2006 Invisible Children fundraiser.

Pete decrees that this is a Very Important Event and they all must dress accordingly. That, "Yes, Andy, you have to wear a tux. No, your shoes don't have to be leather. No, Joe. White tie is for douchebags and James Bond. Trish, come with me, we've got some shopping to do."

Trish totally pretends Pete's demands aren't based on the fact that PMS plus three articles insinuating she was fat plus Joan Rivers plus two (admittedly reluctant) fuggings on GoFugYourself equals crying in the shower. She normally ignores all of that bullshit the best she can (what else can she do?) but every so often, it gets to her.

So she lets Pete have a week to drag her around Los Angeles. She lets him push her at designers all across the city and zip her into dresses made for women a foot taller and twenty pounds lighter. She lets him fuss and prod and spends the day of the event at the spa with him.

She draws the line, however, at letting him do her makeup. For that, she calls in a professional because, really, what's the point of having a bajillion dollars if she can't hire someone to do shit she hates?

After her hair and makeup are done and after the tailor has come and gone and after she's made sure she's not going to fall on her ass wearing three inch heels, Trish has to admit that she looks okay. She's still short and she's still more round than not, but even in the full length mirror in her bedroom at Pete's house that normally makes her look kind of like a troll, she looks okay.

The guys are milling around in the entryway, waiting for her and she is very, very glad her dress isn't full length as she works her way down the stairs. When she stops on the last riser, it's very obvious Pete is doing his best to not fling himself at her and, perhaps, hump her leg. Joe gives her two thumbs up and Andy copies him.

"You look fantastic, Trish."

Pete finally manages to break whatever compulsion was holding him still and he bounces up to her, "Fuck you, Hurley. Trish _always_ looks fantastic. Tonight, she looks fucking _unreal_."

Andy flips Pete off, Joe extends his arm to escort her out to the limo, and it's not until they're almost to the venue that the panic sets in. _Everyone_ she knows in L.A. is going to be at the fundraiser, Pete made sure of that. What the _fuck_ was she thinking letting Pete talk her into buying this four _thousand_ dollar dress?

She thinks maybe she's having a panic attack. Or a stroke. Maybe a seizure. That would explain her complete inability to follow Joe and Andy out the limo door. Pete's fingers on her wrist jolt her out of her increasingly incoherent thoughts.

"Breathe, Patricia." He starts to slide towards the door, tugging on her arm to get her to follow him, "You're beautiful. Trust me."

Fuck. She may not love Pete like _that_ (anymore), but she knows she'll never be able to resist him when he's being all sincere. He steps out of the limo and turns around to hold out his hand to her. That gesture is enough to get the crowd buzzing since Pete isn't even rumored to be dating anyone at the moment and Trish normally hauls herself out just like the rest of them.

She puts her hand in his and steps out onto the red carpet. Pete and Andy and Joe are standing in a tight circle, blocking her from most of the crowd and cameras. She smooths down the skirt of her dress and pulls her shoulders back, forcing her nerves down just like she does before going on stage, "Are we ready for this shit?"

Her boys grin at her and, almost in unison, they step aside to let her lead them into the building. The red carpet is, as always, a gauntlet, but instead of people asking her about Pete's dick or the new album or the fucking _cause_ they're supporting, they're asking her who she's wearing. Like she's fucking Gwyneth or some shit.

People are fucking ridiculous sometimes.

When she thinks back on it, the rest of the night is sort of a blur, only a handful of moments having any sort of clarity.

Gerard _elbowing_ Pete out of the way to dance with her first, being a completely adorable spaz and asking if he could draw her into his comic book because she looks 'just like a porcelain doll! Seriously, Trish.'

Dancing with Joe, all the lessons his mom forced him to for his Bar Mitzvah finally paying off.

Eating dinner with Ray and Mikey, laughing at stories about high school in New Jersey.

Sitting with Andy, nodding along with his lecture about the irony of "all this money, Trish. Jesus, look around us. All of this could have gone to Africa."

Pete and Frank huddling together in a corner, very obviously plotting something.

Dancing with Bob, who smells like soap and tobacco and looks just as uneasy in his tux as she feels in her dress. She barely comes up to his shoulder, even in the fucking shoes that are killing her feet, and his hands huge and warm and calloused in familiar ways on the bare skin of her back and around her hand.

She's girly enough to admit it's one of her favorite memories of night.

***

The first time Bob sees Trish after he's been _set on fire_ is when he wakes up in the hospital after the VMA's.

He feels slow and kind of stupid from the antibiotics and whatever else is in the IV cocktail he can see out of the corner of his eye. His leg is throbbing in time with his heartbeat and his mouth tastes like week old ass. The entire left side of his face is numb from the icepack strapped to his head, but under that, everything feels weirdly stiff like he wouldn't be able to move it even if he tried. He remembers the doctors saying something about an abscess and temporary facial paralysis.

He maybe should have listened to Ray when he told him to go to the doctor last week.

His room is surprisingly quiet; the last time he woke up, Frank and Mikey were arguing over a particularly vicious thumb wrestling match and Gerard was bitching at them both to "shut the fuck up for fuck's sake." He doesn't really want to move his head around and disturb the ice pack, but from what he can see, the room is empty.

He really wants a glass of water.

"Hey, you're awake." Trish is standing at his bedside and Bob feels the right side of his face twist in confusion. They aren't stay-at-the-hospital friends, are they? Did the staph infection eat through his brain while he was asleep? If he had hooked up with Trish and forgotten about it, he is going to be so pissed.

"Your guys had to meet with the label to reschedule some stuff, so they called me and asked me to stay until they got back." Trish reaches out and produces a glass of water and a bendy straw, "Gerard said you've been pretty thirsty?"

Bob tries to answer, but his throat is so dry all he can do is make a weird clicking noise.

She smiles a little at him and it's probably the drugs when everything seems to glow golden, "I'll take that as a yes." The smile fades a little as she contemplates his mostly horizontal position, "You're not supposed to move around too much, right?"

He hums a positive noise the best he can and she nods to herself before stepping closer and sliding her free hand around the back of his neck and lifting his head a few inches so he can drink without choking. He finishes half the glass before pushing back against her hand. She sets the glass back on the side table before carefully lowering his head back onto the pillow. Her fingers are strong and calloused when they squeeze his neck once before slowly pulling away, scratching gently over his skin.

And Bob knows, _knows_ there are painkillers in his IV because that is the only damn explanation for saying, "So, no nurse's uniform, then?"

But Trish's eyes just widen for a second before she laughs and smooths down his hair where the band holding the icepack on has tangled it, "How about when you're not high as a kite, Bryar?"

Bob's totally holding her to that.

***

The first time Bob tries to kiss Trish, he ends up with a black eye.

They're a few dates into the Pete-and-Gerard organized _My Favorite Things_ tour and Bob still isn't sure how their labels were talked into this crazy ass extravaganza featuring everyone Pete's known, ever, on one bill, but he really can't put anything past either of those insane motherfuckers. It's sort of like Warped, but more fun, frankly. And the crowds are way less hostile than some of the Warped ones.

Bob pretends he hasn't heard Pete and Saporta calling it the _Fangirl Fantasy Tour_.

He and Trish have been experimenting with the setup of his kit since the beginning of the tour. He sort of hates all the extra drums the new songs need and they've been trying to come up with _something_ to make it all work. She's sitting on the drum riser, swinging her legs a little. "It's too bad you couldn't have two kits and a revolving riser."

"Yeah, my whole kit should spin like Tommy Lee's too," Bob laughs and falls back against the amp when she pokes him in the shoulder with her shiny green sneaker.

"Shut up, ass. You know what I mean," She kicks at his shoulder again and he catches her foot this time. He tugs a little, moving her a couple of inches closer to the edge of the riser, and she squeals once before snapping her mouth shut and looking embarrassed. It's completely adorable and Bob tugs again, trying to get the same little noise out of her. She narrows her eyes for a second before her face changes and she curls her foot around his arm and bends her knee, pulling him towards her.

Bob lets her foot go, but keeps moving forwards until he's almost pressed against her knees. He lets his hands rest on the edge of the riser next to her hips and tries to ignore the heat he can feel seeping into his cheeks. Sitting on the riser, she's a couple of inches taller than he is and he stretches up on his toes just a little, "Hi."

"Hi," Trish leans forward until they're only a couple of inches apart and licks her lips nervously. Bob copies the gesture and puts a little more weight on his hands as he closes the gap between them.

He's just off balance enough so that when Pete - shooting blindly behind himself with a Super Soaker and chased by what looks like half the tour - comes racing around the corner of the stage and bounces off his back, he goes down like a ton of bricks. He feels Trish grab at his shoulders, trying to keep him upright, but he's too heavy and she's too small so she ends up toppling down after him. He twists as best he can to keep himself between Trish and the stage and he's mostly successful, catching the brunt of her weight on his chest.

And her elbow squarely in his eye.

***

It takes them almost an hour to get checked out by the paramedic in the First Aid tent - "What if something's broken?" "Nothing's broken." "But what if something is?" "Trish - " "Please?" "Fine." - and get settled in the dark quiet of the back lounge of his bus. He's got an icepack pressed to his eye and he's pretty sure he's going to have an impressive set of bruises up and down his back and chest, but no permanent damage was done, so he considers himself ahead of the game still.

Trish is hovering around him, almost fluttering, and Bob is afraid she's about two minutes away from tucking him in and putting him down for a nap. He catches her hand and pulls her down onto the couch next to him, "Hey, stop."

"Sorry," She gestures towards his face, "Just - Sorry."

"This wasn't your fault," Bob starts to lower the icepack, but she covers his hand with hers and sets it back against his face, leaving her hand on his.

"Yeah, okay."

Bob curls his free hand into the soft hair at the back of her neck, but Trish is the one who moves forward, tentatively pressing her mouth to his, like she's waiting for the bus to collapse around them. After a few seconds of disaster-free contact, the corner of her mouth curls into a tiny smile and she licks over the chapped edge of his lip. Bob returns the favor and the throaty moan he can feel better than hear almost distracts him from the way she's shifting next to him.

Until she manages to work herself onto his lap without disturbing the icepack or jabbing him in his fresh bruises.

He wraps his free arm around her waist, steadying her and pulling her closer, the soft weight of her body pressing against his chest. She relaxes into him, draping her arm over his shoulders and rubbing at the skin behind his ear with careful touches. It's a strange counterpoint to the truly _dirty_ way her mouth is moving against his, all lips and tongue and the sharp scrape of teeth.

Bob decides he really loves kissing Trish. She's way more assertive than most of the women (and a few of the men) Bob's kissed in his life and it's sort of nice to just let her take over. To drop his head back into her hand and just _be_ with her. She sets her teeth in his lip, just for a moment, before kissing down over his chin and neck to where his beard ends. She leaves a soft line of bites to his ear and tugs at his earring before shifting back to his mouth.

She still has one hand over his, keeping the icepack in place, and Bob _needs_ his hand free. Her knees are digging into the cushions on either side of his hips and she's not really resting on his legs at all, so Bob's pretty sure if he had his hand free, he could test the shape of her hip, set his thumb into the curve of her waist, _learn_ her.

They both jump when the door to the lounge hits the wall and Ray backs in carrying a small amp.

"Bob, Matt said you were in the First Aid - Whoa! Sorry!" Ray spins back towards the door and tries to catch the edge of it with his foot as he walks out again, "I'll just - yeah. Bye."

They can both hear the beep of Ray's cell dialing even through the door.

Trish drops her head onto Bob's shoulder, "He's calling everyone we know right now, isn't he?"

"Pretty much," Bob rubs her back for a second before resting his hand on the strip of skin between her jeans and t-shirt.

"Fucker." Trish hums into his neck when he slips his fingers under the hem of her shirt, "Eh. Everyone would have figured it out eventually anyway." She's quiet for a moment before she sits back on his knees, "How's your eye?"

Bob shrugs and pulls the icepack away from his face. He absolutely does _not_ miss the warmth of her hand over his. She touches his jaw to turn him towards the light a little and brushes a barely-there kiss over the cold skin, "You'll live, tough guy."

Trish rearranges herself until she's sideways in his lap and rests her head on his chest. Bob drops his chin onto her hair and wraps his arms around her. He knows they've only got a few minutes of quiet before both their bands show up and he'd rather not get caught with his figurative pants down.

Besides, they've got time now.

***

The first time Trish gets her hands in Bob's pants, she almost ends the Bryar line for all eternity.

They're ... someplace in the venue. Bob says he teched here a few years back and he knows all sorts of hidden rooms that most people walk right by. As appreciative as Trish is of Bob's ninja room-finding skills, she's almost to the point where she doesn't care if Pete and Gabe give color commentary on the action. They haven't had more than five minutes alone together since both their bands tumbled into My Chem's back bus lounge four days earlier.

She'd think it was a conspiracy except for how everyone is so genuinely apologetic every time they stumble across Bob with his hands on Trish's ass. Or halfway up her shirt. Or his knee between her legs.

"In here," Bob hurries her into the tiny room with a hand on her back. He glances back over her shoulder and locks the door behind them in a rush. Trish would laugh at him for being a paranoid freak if she wasn't feeling a little hunted herself.

Bob tugs on the flimsy door one last time and rests his forehead on it, "I'm really trying not to be an asshole and just grab you, but if you don't get over here, I think I'm going to die."

Trish is moving before he's done talking because _yes_. It's not that this is some random hookup just for sex or anything - she _likes_ Bob and is pretty sure it's mutual - but she needs to touch him in a way that's new and disconcerting. She wraps herself around him from behind for a second, resting her cheek against his back, before sliding around and pushing between him and the door. She goes up on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek and whisper in his ear, "You're not going to die. It'll just feel like it."

Bob groans a little and drops his hands to her waist, hauling her up a few inches so that it's easier to get to her mouth. He kisses her a little desperately, pressing her back into the door and rattling it on its frame. His hands are hard on her hips and Trish grabs onto his shoulders, her toes brushing the ground as she kisses back just as fiercely, sucking on his tongue and pulling at the long ends of his hair.

His hips are moving restlessly against her and it feels good. Better than good. It would be easy to wind her legs around his waist, to move with him until they both come, but after the last week, he - _they_ \- deserve a lot more. She wiggles a little and pushes against his chest until he lets her slip down his body to stand on the floor again. He pushes back a little, hands flat on the door, and she smiles up at him, turning her head to bite at his bicep as she slides her hand under the waistband of his pants.

"Oh, fuck," Bob drops to one elbow against the door, his other hand tipping Trish's face up for another kiss.

The prickle of his beard and the diet- -and-smoke taste of his mouth straddle the line between new and familiar for Trish and she gives herself over to the sensations as she works his pants open and pushes her hand under the band of his boxer briefs. He's hot in her hand, already more than a little hard, and when she slowly strokes up the length of him, he shudders and breaks off their kiss. He drops his head to rest on his shoulder and slides his hand back to tangle in Trish's hair.

She sets a steady rhythm with her hand, not racing to get him off, but not teasing either. She has her other hand anchored on his hip, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back. Bob's crowding her against the door, the clench of his hand in her hair matching the push of his hips, and the noises he's making in the back of his throat make Trish want a mic and two days in the studio with Gabe and Victoria. She presses up onto her toes to lick at the sweaty skin of his neck, needing to feel the sounds trapped there.

Trish knows exactly how her voice can affect people, so she bites Bob's neck one more time before tipping her chin up and telling him, low and a little rough, all the things she wants to do with him, to him. That she'll let him do to her. Bob turns his head into her voice, nuzzling her forehead and whispering, _yes_ and _please_ and _god trish_ against her skin.

She wants to get him off, to feel him come in her hand, on her skin. She wants him to get _her_ off. Soon. She tightens her hand a little bit more and twists her wrist as best she can. Bob jerks, his hips making a tight little circle that _really_ intrigues Trish, and she knows he's getting close.

It's dangerous, she knows, to let herself get overwhelmed like this, to not even care about the noises she can hear approaching on the other side of the thin door, but Bob is thrusting into her hand, hot and wet. He's making the most gorgeous sounds she's ever heard and just the _smell_ of him, something barely familiar, is enough to make her close her eyes and just _feel_ him around her, in her head and on her skin.

When the door behind her shakes from the force of someone's fist, it's more than just unexpected. It's _foreign_. Like a dinosaur just appeared in the middle of the street or some shit. So she totally flails.

And maybe pushes at Bob.

And perhaps trips over her own feet.

And possibly forgets to _let go of him_.

Trish can hardly hear Bob over the sound of Pete screeching about _'Fiends! How dare you steal my Trish away in the night!'_ but he's obviously swearing up a storm. He's half-fetal on the dirty cement floor next to her, cupping his balls and rocking the tiniest bit. Trish scoots a little closer and lays a tentative hand on his back, entirely too relieved when he doesn't shrug her off and call her a horrible, nut twisting bitch.

Or something.

Pete is still pounding on the door, offering up Dirty, a package of new underwear, and all the Skittles he can find as ransom. Trish drops her head onto the peak of Bob's shoulder for a second before yelling back, "God, Pete! Shut up!"

"Trish! You were gone and I was all alone! The fiends kidnapped you right out from under my nose!"

"There are no fiends in here, Pete. Just me and Bob."

"They stole Bob too?"

And Trish has to laugh, because, really. Fiends? Stealing her away? "Pete, please. Go away."

He pounds on the door again, but it's obviously half hearted, "But I love you."

"I love you, too, Pete. But I need, like, an hour to get off, okay?"

"An hour? Really? Usually it only takes you - "

"You can totally go away now, Pete." Trish never, _ever_ wants Pete to finish that sentence.

"Fine. Be that way." He kicks the door one last time and Trish waits until she sees his shadow move away from the door before slumping against Bob's back.

"I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" She pets Bob's arm and kisses the side of his head.

"I'll live," He uncurls and sits up carefully, wincing a little when he's upright. "I don't think an hour is going to happen, though. I don't think _anything_ is going to happen right now."

Trish sighs and weasels her arms around his chest, hugging him tight for a second, "Come on. If you can walk, we'll go trace Pete's path of destruction and make apologies as needed."

"You sure know how to show a boy a good time, Stump."

"I try, Bryar. I try."

***

Never let it be said that Trish Stump doesn't learn from her mistakes.

She makes sure Pete is solidly entrenched in a day of puppy-family bonding with Hemmy and Joe. She may have intimated that Hemingway was becoming a latchkey kid.

She's not proud.

Andy was last seen on the hunt for the ever-elusive vegan cookies (Trish hid them in the TAI bus. What?) and Charlie and Dirty and the rest of them are in the middle of a cut-throat Yahtzee tournament.

She trusts Bob has taken care of his own bandmates.

So here they are.

Another day, another venue.

Another empty room.

Trish pulls Bob across the room by his belt loops, not stopping until they are as far from the door as the small space will allow. Not that Bob is wasting any time either; as soon as Trish's back hits the far wall, his mouth is on hers and his hands are warm on her ribcage, just firm enough to not tickle. She tangles her fingers in the hair at his nape - he needs a haircut already and Trish thinks he'll probably look like Cousin Itt by the end of summer if they don't find someone with some scissors and a bare minimum of skill.

Someone not Brendon Urie, though.

Bob carefully slides his hands up her body, catching the curves of her breasts in his palms. His hands are hot, even through the thin fabric of her washed out t-shirt and bra (she has another, heavier bra she wears onstage - the last thing she needs is the internet covered in pictures of her nipping out). He brushes his thumbs in random circles until she pushes up against his grip and bites his lip.

"Stop teasing."

Bob bites back, catching the damp skin of her lower lip as he unfastens her pants. He leaves them hanging off her hips and slides his hand under the waistband of her underpants. Trish automatically sucks in when Bob's hand brushes over her stomach, hoping he'll just keep moving downwards, but he stops there, palming the warm curve of her belly until she relaxes. He kisses her again, smiling against her cheek at the little noise she makes when he pushes his hand further into her pants.

He stays like that, mouth against her temple and hand still between her legs until she squirms against him, grinding down onto his hand and reaching up to knot her hands in the sleeves of his t-shirt.

"I said stop fucking teasing."

Bob bends his fingers just enough to nudge the tip of one inside of her, then he stops again, moving only enough to gently pet at her. Trish makes a frustrated sound and tightens her hands in his shirt until he hears a couple of stitches pop in the collar. He shifts closer then, leaning his free arm on the wall above her head as he pushes two fingers carefully inside her.

Trish stops breathing for a second before exhaling on a gorgeous moan and grinding against the heel of Bob's hand. She never really pegged him for dirty talk, but he drops his head down and starts whispering truly filthy things into her ear. She turns towards his voice, pressing up on her tiptoes to mouth a sloppy kiss to the side of his neck before dropping back on her heels and panting her way through her orgasm.

Bob stills his hand, pressing hard against her until she relaxes a little. She tips her head back against the wall and smiles up at him. He bends down to kiss her before tilting his head to whisper _again_ and stroking her softly. Trish whimpers a little at the sensation, but moves in rhythm with him, fisting her hands in the fabric his shirt. She falters, swearing as she comes around his fingers again, but Bob's arm is there, wrapping around her waist and holding her steady as he coaxes her body even higher. He keeps his hand moving the whole time, pressing and rubbing against her, not giving her a chance to come down at all.

She can't really tell if she's riding one huge wave, or if she's skipping from orgasm to orgasm, but it totally doesn't matter. Bob is there with her, holding her up, holding her close, and then he's _right_ there with her, his arms tight around her, jerking his hips against her side and choking out her name. He stops stroking her, but leaves his hand pressed tight to her and that's enough to leave Trish shaking, hanging onto his shoulders to stay on her feet.

He's curled next to her, half leaning on the wall as he starts to go a little boneless. He nuzzles his nose through her hair for a second before using his grip on her waist to pull her close enough to kiss. Trish can't help but moan at the thick slide of his tongue into her mouth and she twitches against his hand.

Bob laughs disbelievingly into her mouth and his eyebrows are up near his hairline when he pulls back, "Again?"

Trish shrugs and can feel her face getting hot with embarrassment even as his fingers are starting to move again. He's leaning down to kiss her when the door swings open. Ray is three steps into the room before he notices them and claps his hand over his eyes.

"Jesus Christ, you two!"

Groping for the doorknob, he runs into the doorjamb on his way out and they can hear him swearing even through the closed door. Trish starts to giggle and drops her head to Bob's shoulder when she can't hold it up any longer. She's not going to stop laughing anytime soon, they've both seen her do this enough to know that, so he sighs and sketches a kiss to the corner of her mouth before easing his hand out of her pants and wiping it off on some of the paper towels sitting on the shelf next to them.

She's winding down by the time he has her pants done up again and she slumps forward into his arms, breathless with laughter, "I can't decide if Ray has the best or worst timing of everyone we know."

Bob laughs into her hair and pulls her away from the wall to stand on wobbly legs, "Come on, we've got a couple of hours until soundcheck. I need to change my pants, then we'll cuddle."

Trish makes grabby hands at him, "I can't walk that far, you killed me. Piggyback?"

He rolls his eyes, but turns around and squats down enough for her to hop on his back, "Your bus or mine?"

"Mine. I think we've traumatized your bandmates enough for today," Trish squirms around until she's comfortable, then locks her ankles around Bob's waist. "Giddy up!"

Bob hitches her up a little higher and starts towards the door, "If you kick me, I'm dropping your ass."

Trish squeezes him tight for a second, sort of giddy with afterglow and sheer happiness, "You'll never drop me, Bobby Bryar."

"You're probably right."

***

The first time Bob starts to go down on Trish, he ends up with a black eye. Again.

The thing is, they've been together for nearly three weeks and they're still two weeks away from a hotel stay. They've been together three weeks _on tour_ , which is about six months in real time and they haven't managed anything more than a couple of handjobs.

If Bob didn't care about privacy at all, it wouldn't be an issue. Living in everyone else's pocket really doesn't slow anyone else down, but he sort of wants this thing with Trish to be ... special. Something more than just a series of hookups on tour, so he doesn't just pull her into his bunk and hope to god everyone else stays away for the next hour. Or six.

Instead, he spends his precious free time searching out quiet pockets in venues and bartering vegan candy and cigarettes for quarters of hours on his bus. Don't get him wrong, he loves making out with Trish and a handjob from her is better than, like, forty percent of the full on sex he's had in his life, but he wants more.

So when they get to Salt Lake City six hours early, a carton of cigarettes and a week of complaint free piggyback rides wins him three hours of uninterrupted dressing room time from Frankie. For twenty hours in the bus studio and the promise he _never has to walk in on them again_ he gets the same from Ray. Gerard promises to keep himself and Mikey busy for three hours for two cartons of smokes, a bag of Sumatran blend, and eight hours of Bob as a drawing model at a date to be named later.

Bob never realized his bandmates were quite so mercenary.

He doesn't care, though. He'd probably have agreed to let Gerard draw him naked if it gets him this. If it gets him Trish warm under him on the saggy dressing room couch, half-naked and laughing as her pants get tangled around one ankle. Bob kisses the skin on her chest above the edge of her tank top and slides off the couch to free her foot from the twisted fabric. Her legs are smooth and white under his hands, somehow free of the mess of freckles that cover most of his skin. He tosses her pants up onto the couch next to her and kisses the inside curve of her knee. "So, hey. I had this thought."

Trish pushes his hair off his forehead before sprawling back on the couch, "Yeah? What kind of thought?"

"Something like this, maybe," Bob mouths a lazy path up her thigh, pushing her legs apart until he can nose at the black cotton and elastic curving over her hip.

Trish's breath catches and she squirms under his mouth, "That's a very nice kind of thought."

"Yeah?" Bob breathes against her for another second before hooking his fingers in the top of her panties and pulling them down a couple of inches, "I thought it was pretty smart of me."

He rubs his beard over the soft skin of her belly, loving the way the muscles jump as she tries not to twist away from the ticklish sensation. He sits back a little and eases her panties down slowly. He knows he's smiling like a total goof, but he can't help it. He's just so -

Ow.

Bob blinks at the white spots floating above him, dancing over the water stained acoustical tiles of the ceiling. His ears are ringing in time with the throbbing around his eye and it sort of muffles all the swearing and yelling Trish is doing above his head. He can hear Mikey talking to her, but stays on the ground, figuring at least this way he'll be out of firing range if she starts throwing stuff.

Hey, he's heard the stories.

He doesn't move until he hears the door slam. He tilts his head back enough to see Mikey staring at him upside down from next to the door.

"Did she knee you in the face?"

Bob sits up and turns around, gingerly pokes at tender skin around his eye, "Yeah, I think so."

"Ouch."

Bob resists the urge to bang his head against the wall, "Mikey, what are you - You know what? Never mind. Can you find me an icepack?"

"Dude, you're like a battered wife."

Bob sighs.

***

Bob is still lying on the dressing room couch an hour and a half later. The cold pack is a lukewarm lump in his hand and he _seriously_ hates everything in the world right now. He wonders sometimes, when things are especially fucked up, if Frank wasn't right when he joked about Bob being cursed.

Because, really? He's never been all that accident prone. Even as a kid. Even after he grew a foot and a half the year he turned fourteen.

He's half-way convinced himself to ask Gerard if he knows anyone who can de-cursify him when the dressing room door opens and Trish shuffles in. She leans against the door and hunches her shoulders the way she does when she's embarrassed.

"Hey."

"Hi. You calmed down yet?" And that's a bit of a low blow, Bob knows, but he's got another black eye and Mikey called him a battered wife.

"Yes." Trish makes a little face and stares down at her toes. After a second, she peeks at him a little from under the brim of her hat, "So, uh. I'm sorry I kicked you in the face."

Bob shrugs since he's pretty sure that part was an accident, but, "And the yelling and door slamming and stomping off?"

Trish curls into herself a bit more, what Bob can see of her face turning red, "I'm _especially_ sorry for that."

Bob tosses the useless cold pack onto the pile of shit in the corner and sits up, "More than giving me a black eye?"

She bites her lip and kicks at the floor, "Um. I might have forgotten to put my pants on before I left."

Bob tries to hold his laughter in, he honestly does, because Trish's sketchy control of her temper isn't funny, not really, but after everything else, the thought of her getting halfway back to her bus before realizing she's carrying her pants and shoes is too much for him. He's wheezing by the time he's done laughing and it takes him a while to catch his breath.

Trish looks decidedly unimpressed when he finally pulls himself together enough to look at her, "You need to stop smoking, asshole."

That sets Bob off again, laughing and coughing into his elbow, wiping away stray tears with the sleeve of his shirt until he relaxes against the back of the couch. Trish rolls her eyes and stomps over to sit next to him. He drops his arm over her shoulders and it only takes a tiny bit of pressure to have her curled against his side.

"I really am sorry for kicking you in the eye and yelling," She's playing with the hem of his shirt, brushing against the skin of his stomach in random touches.

Bob flicks her hat off and kisses the side of her head, "No big."

Trish twists under the weight of his arm, bracing her hand on his thigh and kneeling on the couch. She feathers a breath of a kiss over the puffy skin around his eye before squirming down to kneel between his legs, "You should let me make it up to you."

 _"Jesus Christ."_

"I'll take that as a 'yes,' then," Trish pushes at the hem of his shirt until he pulls it over his head, sucking in a startled breath when she slides her fingers under the waistband of his pants and unfastens them.

She carefully works his pants and shorts over his hips, then strips them off his legs with a flourish. She leaves them in a crumpled heap on the floor, on top of his abandoned flip-flops, and stretches up the length of his body to kiss him. Trish's tongue is gentle against his and the washed-thin fabric of her t-shirt is a soft barrier between his cock and the warm skin of her stomach. Bob gets his hands under her shirt and peels it off as she sits back on her heels.

Bob's not going to lie, for him the answer has always been black and lace and flirty when the question was lingerie, but he's pretty sure pink and cotton and plain have just ruined the curve forever. She's beautiful and Bob tells her so.

Trish just makes a face before quirking a self-conscious little grin at him and licking her lips, "Just remember I have to sing later tonight."

And then it's just the _hotwetsoft_ of her mouth sliding over the head of his cock. Bob jerks his hips up before he can stop himself and Trish shoves them back down, pinning him to the couch with strong, calloused hands - _a drummer's_ hands.

"Sorry, sorry."

Trish leans up and drops a kiss on his chest, licking over his nipple before settling back between his legs, sucking his cock back into her mouth and pushing one of her hands down the front of her own jeans. Bob arches again before he can get his body under control, but Trish has the pointy end of her elbow jammed into his thigh, keeping him still. Her hand is wrapped around his dick, slowly jerking what she doesn't have in her mouth.

It's - Bob's thought about this. A lot. It's sort of impossible to see Trish's mouth - god, to kiss that mouth - and not imagine how it would feel sliding over him and Bob's always had a pretty vivid imagination.

He wasn't even in the ballpark with this one.

It's not that she's doing anything especially fancy or putting on a show for him, but there's something completely enthralling about the way she's moving, how she's touching him. He sort of wants to close his eyes, to focus on anything other the sight of that mouth stretched around him, but he can't look away. Her eyes are open too, meeting his as best she can through the wisps of her bangs and crinkling up like she'd be smiling if she could.

As she moves, he can see flashes of tongue and the edge of her hand moving slow and strong and _perfect_ on him. Her hair is a tangled mess and Bob reaches to tuck it behind her ear, rubbing his thumb over the curve of her cheek before reaching up and back with both hands to knot them in the loose upholstery along the top edge of the couch. Her eyes flicker over his body once before dropping closed to let dark lashes fan on her flushed cheeks.

Bob closes his eyes when she does, narrowing his focus down to the pressure of Trish's hand on him, the wet sound of her mouth on his dick, the feel of her tongue twisting over him. It's almost worse this way, with nothing to distract him from the liquid pressure of her mouth. It's sort of embarrassing how quickly she has him squirming, fighting his natural urge to push for more, for deeper.

He's being loud - too loud for where they are - but he's never been able to be quiet, to be still like this. He doesn't really care right now since he knows how Trish feels about sound. How _everything_ is music to her in some way. How she loves the break and twist of pleasure in someone's voice. How connected it makes her feel.

She hums a response to the noises he's making, a third above him, changing pitch a fraction of a second after he does and the vibrations of her voice are like electricity through Bob's entire body. She shifts a little, swallowing around him and sliding her hand off his dick to down between his legs. She cups his balls for a second, her palm warm and gentle against his skin, before reaching back and pressing hard behind them.

Bob seizes up for a second, his heels digging into the dirty linoleum and his hands tangling in the tattered upholstery. He twists desperately under Trish, fighting not to thrust into her mouth as he feels his orgasm start to knot in his stomach. He tries to warn Trish, he really does, but his voice is caught somewhere in his chest. She seems to know, though, and pulls back until she's only got the first couple of inches of him in her mouth. She swirls her tongue over the head of his cock and that's it for Bob.

He's not going to say he blacked out, but it's entirely possible things went fuzzy for a moment or two there. He can feel Trish's mouth, soft around him as she slowly pulls back and rests the flushed side of her face against his thigh. All he can hear for a long moment is the sound of his heartbeat thundering in his ears and he knows he's blinking stupidly at the ceiling.

When his heartbeat fades to a normal level, he realizes the soft sound that's been on the edge of his hearing is Trish humming in time with the quick movement of her fingers on his ankle. It takes him a few seconds to figure out she's composing something, but when he does, he stays still until she stops with a satisfied little sound.

He finally feels like he can move without embarrassing himself with spastic flailing and he untangles his aching hands from the fabric above his head and shakes out his wrists. He slides his fingers under the heavy weight of her hair to rest on the back of her neck. She pushes back into his hold and he uses his grip to bring her back upright and into kissing range.

She leans up to meet him, wrapping her arms around his neck and sprawling over him as he sits back. Her skin is hot under his hands and her mouth is slick and tastes a little like him still. She squirms a little when he gets his fingers under the waistband of her jeans, pressing against him and tugging at his hair. Bob pulls his hands out from her pants and traces the line of her spine up to the clasp of her bra. She pushes back into his touch again and Bob takes that as permission.

He unhooks her bra and braces his hands on her ribs to help her sit back on her heels again. She's reaching for the shoulder straps when the door flies open behind her.

"What's this about an interven - Goddammit!" Ray spins around and slams the door behind himself before shouting through the thin barrier. "You promised, Bob! Not cool!"

"It hasn't been three hours, dickface!" Bob shouts back, checking the clock hanging crookedly on the wall. "And tell Gerard he's a shitty Mikey wrangler!"

Trish moans pitifully and collapses in on herself from where she'd been frozen, dropping her forehead onto the tiny triangle of couch between Bob's legs. Bob sits forward and rubs over her back, "Hey, are you okay?"

"I'm fine." He can feel the big breath she takes before sitting up and reaching back to re-hook her bra. She grabs her shirt from the floor next to her and pulls it on before handing Bob the pile of his clothes. "Two weeks?"

"Thirteen days even," Bob tugs his t-shirt over his head waits until she's standing to pull on his shorts and jeans. Once he's dressed he settles back into the corner of the small couch and she straddles his lap to kiss him before settling herself in prime cuddling position so she can nap until soundcheck.

Two weeks of just this isn't so terrible.

***

The first time Trish almost has sex with Bob, she totally gets felt up by Frank.

She's in Bob's bunk, curled up against his back and sleeping off the exhaustion of three shows in the baking sun of Arizona and New Mexico. It's late, or maybe early - Trish isn't sure when one becomes the other - and she's suddenly awake. The bus is still and quiet except for the sound of the road under the wheels and Trish squeezes Bob, pushing her face through the tangled mess of his hair to kiss the back of his neck.

Nine days to a hotel room.

Bob makes a grumbly noise and flops around until his head is on Trish's chest and he's wrapped around her like an octopus. He rubs his cheek against her a little and whispers, "Why are you awake?"

Trish shrugs as best she can with his weight on her and whispers back, "Just am."

"Hmmmmm," Bob is half-awake at best and his voice scrapes along the bottom of his register. "'S quiet."

"Everyone's still asleep," Trish pushes his hair off his face and kisses the top of his head.

Bob hums again, tipping his head up to rub his beard over her throat as he kisses near her ear, "Wanna fool around?"

Trish...wants to do more than fool around.

She's never been one to jump into bed with someone, but she's known Bob - she's _wanted_ Bob - forever and all this waiting has been killing her. They've been together for a month and it's pretty much the best relationship she's ever been in. Bob gets her, gets all the different parts of her, in a way no one outside of her band ever really has. She knows she's tempting fate by even thinking it, but she just wants to have sex with her boyfriend.

Right now.

Trish pulls Bob's head up so she can see his face in the dim light and rubs at the pillow crease in his cheek, "Let's have sex."

"What? Now?" Bob looks like he doesn't believe he's really awake.

"Yup. Right now." Trish squirms around as she pushes her underpants over her hips and kicks them down to the bottom of the bunk. Pulling her tank top off without jabbing Bob in the face with her elbow (again) is more of a struggle, so she leaves it after a few seconds of trying.

Bob blinks at her for a moment - just long enough for Trish to start second guessing her boldness - before he leans down and kisses her square on the mouth, "Thank god. I never thought we were going to get to the stupid hotel."

She grins at him and shoves her hand into the back of his boxer briefs, pushing them down until she can't reach anymore. He kicks them off the rest of the way and settles down half on top of her. She arches up into the weight of his hand on her hip, tugging his head down for another kiss.

He rubs at her side absently, rucking her shirt up under her boobs before brushing over her stomach and slotting his hand between her legs. His hands are so _nice_ and Trish moves into his touch, arching her back and stretching as much as she can in the small space. Bob makes a noise in the back of his throat and bites at her jaw before moving up to kiss her again.

She combs her fingers through his hair, tugging gently until he's mostly on top of her and her tank top is the only barrier between them. She can fell his cock digging into her leg and she twists under him, trying to _put_ him where she wants him.

"Shhhh," Bob pulls his mouth away from hers and scoots her up in the bunk so that her shoulders are propped on his pillows. He runs his fingers under the hem of her top and whispers, "Get rid of this," before kissing down her stomach and licking into her.

It's like electricity and Trish's entire body jerks. Her knee rams into the side of the bus and her arms get trapped over her head in the skinny straps of her tank top. She doesn't care her knee is throbbing or that her shirt is wrapped around her head and elbows. She doesn't care that she's probably biting through her lip trying to keep quiet the moan she can feel building in her chest. She doesn't care about anything but the way Bob's touching her.

A giggle is her only warning before a heavy weight drops on her and there's a too-small hand on her boob.

"Um. Holy shit."

There's a moment where no one moves, like a whole rest in the middle of a song, then it's a mad scramble of limbs in the bunk. Trish tries to untangle her arms and kick Frank off her without kicking Bob in the face (again) while Bob swears and threatens and grabs at Frank's hips to push him out of the bunk. Frank seems to be trying to slide off of her without grabbing her boob again, but he's laughing too hard and swatting at Bob too much to do anything other than curl up into a little ball and let himself be tossed onto the floor.

Trish hears him hit the ground with a thud, but he's still laughing as he scrambles to his feet and throws himself into Gerard's bunk.

"Gerard! Gerard! Wake up! I touched Trish's boob!"

"Shut the fuck up."

"No, for real! She was _naked_!"

"What?"

But Frank is already on his way into Ray's bunk, "Ray!"

"I heard, Frankie."

"It was _awesome_ , Ray." He raises his voice, "You have great tits, Trish!"

Trish covers her face with her newly-freed hands and wonders if they'll let her kill Frank. She can play rhythm guitar for MCR and sing for her own band at the same time. They just have to tour together all the time.

Which, actually, is not a bad plan.

"Frank, you should probably go somewhere Bob can't kill you," Mikey's voice sounds like his face is buried under all of his bedding.

Bob lifts his head from where he'd let it fall next to Trish's hip, "There's no where you can go, Iero."

Frank makes a rude noise and heads into the lounge. Probably to find his phone and tell everyone he knows that he touched Trish Stump's fantastic tits.

She can _totally_ play for both bands.

She feels Bob's hands on her wrists and lets him tug her hands down, "I'm pretty sure Worm'll help me hide his body if you want."

Trish sighs and pulls him up to lie next to her, "You kill him and Jamia goes after you. Then I have to kill her and all of a sudden it's Jersey vs. Chicago cage match and Ray is much bigger than Pete."

Bob snorts and reaches down to pull the crumpled sheet over them, tucking it around her shoulder and hip, but leaving her legs free, just the way she likes, "Everyone is bigger than Pete."

Trish concedes with a sigh, "Nine days?"

"Nine days."

"Crap."

***

 _Interlude: TABLE plans_

A big hand appears from behind the venue manager's office door and tangles in Pete's hood, hauling him into the room.

"What the fuck, Toro? I almost pissed myself."

"We have to do something, Pete!" Ray's voice is even higher than normal, bordering on the truly shrill, and his hair seems to be moving independently of him, air currents, or any known science.

Pete is obviously transfixed by it for a moment before shaking his head and looking at the rest of the gathered group. Joe and Andy are confused and not a little freaked out by Ray freaking out. Frank and the Ways just look amused.

Situation normal, then.

"Something about what?"

"Bob and Trish!"

"I thought we already did, if what Joe walked in on last week was any indication." Pete leers at the room in general and isn't surprised when only Joe smirks back. Some fuckers have no sense of the absurd.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about. I love them both, but if I have to see Bob naked or Trish on her knees one more time, I'm either going to get cancer in my _eyes_ or start breaking shit."

Pete's eyes light up, "Trish was on her knees?"

"No, Pete." Andy's voice is implacable.

"But - "

"No."

"Fine. Be that way." Pete leans back against the wall, "Okay, obviously if we've all walked in on them, it's becoming - "

"I haven't."

"What?"

"I haven't walked in on them," Gerard's mouth is all twisted into a frown.

"Jesus fuck, Gerard. Not this again." Frank looks like he desperately wants a cigarette despite the seven visible 'No Smoking' signs hanging on the walls.

"Shut up, Frankie. I'm just making sure Pete is being accurate."

"You shut up. You're just being a pissy bitch because you haven't seen hot-ass Bob or Trish naked."

"I am not! They're my friends and - "

"I call bullshit." Mikey doesn't even bother to look up from his magazine.

"Mikeyway!"

"You just said last night that it wasn't fair everyone has walked in on them but you."

"That was _private_!" Gerard has his hands clasped over his chest like a scandalized maiden. "Besides, it's not fair. I'm an artist. If anyone could appreciate seeing them like that it's me."

"Pfft. You're just jealous I touched Trish's naked boob."

"What?"

Frank hipchecks Pete back into the wall, "Settle down. It was an accident."

"See? It's creating dissent," Ray crosses his arms over his chest. "We need a plan."

***

Six days.

Six days.

Sixdayssixdayssixdays.

When he's not drumming or actively thinking about something else, that's the chorus in his mind. Once they get on the road tonight, they've got two days of travel thanks to a flooded venue in Tennessee, then it'll be _three days_.

If it weren't for his bandmates constantly lurking, he'd bounce and clap like a little kid.

"Here," Ray drops something onto his lap.

"What's this?" Bob picks up the manila envelope and bends up the little metal thing holding it closed.

"Keys to the rental outside, directions to the hotel, and plane tickets from here to Miami for the day after tomorrow," Ray shows him his duffel - already packed - and pushes him towards the bus door.

"Wait, what?" Bob stumbles down the stairs and sees a late model Ford parked next to their bus. Frank and Pete are chasing around the car, spitting at each other and playing keep-away with an ancient hackey sack.

Frank bounces off Pete's back when he comes to an abrupt halt in front of Bob and says, oddly solemn, "I took Trish over to the hotel about a half an hour ago."

Oh. _Oh._ Bob is _retarded_.

Bob nods and Pete just stares at him for a minute, like he's trying to read his mind or something, but then he steps back and whips the hackey sack at Frank's head before taking off across the parking lot with Frank in pursuit. Bob pulls the directions and keys out of the envelope and gets in the car.

Sort of.

He whacks his knees on the dashboard and nearly guts himself on the steering wheel first. He yanks violently at the seat release, muttering about _fucking midget bass players_ as he slides back several inches. Ray's laughing as he opens the back door and sets Bob's bag on the seat.

"Eat me, Toro. I bet that short fuck did it on purpose."

Ray laughs again and shoots him the bird before executing a pretty impressive about face and heading back towards the bus.

"Hey, Ray?" Bob waits until he's turned around again before saying, "Thanks."

Ray waves him off and he's got his seatbelt on, the car started, and is on the highway before he even really thinks about it. The hotel isn't that far from the venue - not even fifteen minutes, he bets - and again it's like he hit a time dilation field or some shit because he's standing in front of room 409 (non-smoking, dammit) without really remembering how he got there from the parking lot.

He feels weird and out of sorts as he runs the keycard through the reader thing and waits for the light to change to green. Which is just stupid of him. It's not like either of them are virgins or that they haven't been doing lots of sexy touching in the past five weeks, but all of this - the hotel and the plane tickets and their friends - feels fraught somehow.

He really needs to stop watching fucking _Dawson's Creek_ DVDs when he can't sleep.

The way Trish jumps up and fidgets with her hat when he drops his duffel next to the crumpled bedspread ( _"Bob, seriously, don't you watch CSI? That thing is, like, full of disease. Get it away from me." "You're a germophobe, Frank." "Don't come crying to me when you get the pox, dude."_ ) doesn't do much for his own nerves and he leans back against the fire safety information card, "Hey."

"Hi."

Bob's pretty sure he's had more awkward moments in his life, but he'd be hard pressed to think of even one right now. He toes off his shoes just because he can, "So, uh - "

"Jesus, we're lame," Trish tosses her hat towards her suitcase. "Just get over here, Bryar."

And then Trish is half-way across the room and Bob is stumbling over his discarded shoes to meet her. They don't quite crash into each other, but it's a close thing. Trish hops up a little, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, biting at his mouth for a second before kissing him. Even though he's desperate - _frantic_ \- to touch her, everything in him relaxes a little when her mouth opens easily under his. He walks them back towards the bed, pushing the hand not supporting her ass up under her shirt and greedily touching all of her he can reach.

He stops walking when his shins hit the edge of the bed and he levers her up so that her face is a little higher than his. He pulls back from their kiss, dragging his mouth over the curve of her jaw and down to her neck. He sucks gently under her ear and feels the noise she makes as her hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders. He smiles against her skin and quickly rearranges his hold on her so that he can toss her onto the bed.

He's got his shirt over his head before she's stopped bouncing and swearing.

He feels clumsy as he works on the buttons of his jeans, but he's used to dealing with hands that don't quite do what he wants them to sometimes, so he's down to his boxer briefs by the time Trish gets her head clear of the neck of her t-shirt. He grabs the bottom of her jeans and pulls as soon as she gets them unfastened, dropping them on the ground to tangle with his. Her underwear doesn't match - black cotton panties and a light blue silky bra - but that's the last thing on his mind as he crawls up the bed and over her, tasting the skin of her stomach, her chest, her throat.

Trish has one hand wrapped around his bicep and the other on the back of his neck, calloused fingers scratching over his skin as she tries to tug him down on top of her, but he locks his elbows and nips at her ear in warning. He _wants_ to settle onto her - _into_ her - to feel all the ways she curves around him, but more than that he wants this to last, to be something he can pull out of his memory when they're on different sides of the world, so he stays propped on his hands and knees over her, kissing every bit of skin he can reach.

He finishes what he's pretty sure is going to be one hell of a hickey on the curve of her shoulder and kisses her again. Her hands slide off his shoulders and Bob can feel her squirming around, but isn't sure what she's doing until he opens his eyes to find her completely naked under him.

She smiles up at him and pushes her hands under the waistband of his shorts, working them down as far as she can without sitting up. He sits back on his heels to peel them the rest of the way off, kicking until they're off his feet, then Trish is yanking him down and they're skin to skin.

Trish shivers and stretches out under the weight of his body, brushing her toes against the outside of his calves and bracing her hands against the headboard, "Mmmmmm, you feel good."

"You do too," Bob pushes his face into the curve of her neck, scratching over her skin with his beard as he drags his open mouth over her chest. He follows the curve of her breast to her nipple, careful there to make sure it's just the softwet of his lips and tongue because he _knows_ how sensitive she is.

Trish groans and drops one hand away from the headboard to tangle her fingers in his hair. He kisses the center of her chest and the peak of her other breast before licking a path down her abdomen, stupidly glad they finally have the time and space for him to actually do this instead of half-assing it in a sketchy bathroom. He shoulders her legs farther apart and bites at the tendon on her inner thigh, feeling her whole body tense against his mouth. Bob's not going to lie and say he _loves_ going down on girls, but he for sure doesn't mind and giving Trish head is pretty awesome. She really, _really_ likes it, for one thing and she's also ridiculously easy to get off.

He just breathes against her for a second before flicking his tongue against her clit and licking into her. She's wet already, soft and swollen against his mouth as he rubs his thumb over her clit and pushes his tongue inside of her. Her fingers are tight in his hair, tugging him closer to her as she twists under his mouth. She arches sharply, choking on a groan, and Bob presses two, then three fingers into her to feel the contractions of her body. He licks up to her clit and she jerks, her heel thumping on his back. He stays just like that - the flat of his tongue pressed against her and half of his hand inside her - as she shakes under him.

He crooks his fingers a bit more and she makes a noise Bob is pretty sure Gerard spent three days in the studio trying to nail for the psycho mermaid song. He's thinking about going for number four when something pointy jabs into the side of his head. He looks up and Trish pokes him in the temple again with the condom box, gesturing weakly with her other hand.

"Condom. Now."

"I was sort of doing some - "

" _Now_ , fucker."

Bob's learned not to argue with that tone of voice. He sits back, sliding his fingers out of her and wiping them off on the sheet as he grabs the box from her shaky hand. He grits his teeth, rolling the condom on. This would be such a horrible time to lose his cool, he barely even wants to _think_ about it. He looks up at her and he's just _caught_ , completely unable to look away from her. She's fucking beautiful, spread out against the sheets, all pink and gold, lush curves, soft red hair spread out against the sheets, looking at him like... well, actually, she's looking at him like she's planning to stab him with something pointy if he doesn't get off his ass and _fuck_ her already.

He shuffles forward on his knees, dropping down to one hand on the bed next to her shoulders. She hitches one of her legs around his waist and curls her hands around his arms, wiggling a bit as he gets himself into position. He carefully pushes into her a little, stopping after a couple of inches to drop down to his elbow and get the weight of his body off his stupid weak wrist.

Trish moans under him, "No stopping. Why'd you stop?"

Bob winces, hating his fucked-up wrists _so_ much. He wants nothing more than to fuck her - as hard as possible, yes please - but he can already tell that with their height difference, he'd probably suffocate her if they try fucking this way. "My wrists," he says, knowing that he sounds sullen.

"Ohhhh." Trish squirms under him, making Bob's breath catch. "Roll over. I mean it, Bryar," she says, shoving at one of his shoulders. "We're not fucking up your wrists any more."

Bob rolls over onto his back, batting at the pillows until they're not all lumpy under his neck. Trish rolls her eyes at his semi-petulant fussing, but waits until he's done to swing her leg over his stomach and flop down on his chest, leaning up to kiss him for a long moment before sliding back a few inches and sitting up.

His hands automatically go to her hips when she raises up on her knees and reaches down to steady his cock so she can sink slowly down. And it's hotwet _heaven_ , the feeling of her sliding down onto his cock. Bob braces his heels against the bed, getting enough leverage to push _up_ a little, his hands guiding her hips as she settles onto him. He holds still for a few beats, just _feeling_ it, as deep inside her as he can get, but Trish groans a little at the back of her throat and starts rocking _up_.

God, he's wanted to fuck her for so long, he wants this to last _forever_ , but there's no way he can hold still once she starts moving. He rolls his shoulders and bends his knees up, using his grip on her hips to brace Trish against the upwards thrust of his hips. She makes a loud noise and props her hands on his chest to push back. It only takes a few seconds for them to find a rhythm together and it's perfect.

Bob knew it would be.

She leans over further, slowing down the rhythm, so that they can kiss, her hair falling around him in a sweet-smelling curtain. Bob slides one hand from her hip to her soft, heavy breast, thumbing the nipple gently. She breaks the kiss and smiles down at him, her devious, deceptively innocent-looking smile. "I want you to fuck me everywhere in this room - the shower, the desk - up against the wall, bent over the back of the sofa - "

Bob groans, his hands flexing on her hip and breast, probably squeezing too hard but _holy shit_.

She grinds down at him, her eyes fluttering closed as she bites her lip for a second before refocusing on him. She leans down again, biting at his neck and chest, "And then we're going to get your braces out and you're going to hold me down and fuck me on this bed again."

Bob snaps his hips up into her and her head drops forward, her forehead thunking against his sternum as she matches his new tempo. He can feel her hands fisting in the sheets as she pushes back onto his dick. She's still talking, whispering filthy things into his skin as her body gets tighter and tighter around him.

And he's got to hold on, hold _on_ , because there's no _way_ he's leaving her hanging, not after how long they've waited. Bob grits his teeth as he fucks her harder, faster, feeling the little spasms that mean she's getting close. Her voice goes breathy, strained, and then she's moaning, gasping "Fuck-- fuck-- Bob--" in a high, broken voice, in rhythm with the clenching of her pussy around him.

And Bob lets go, his rhythm falling to shit and his hands clutching at her hips and ass, just trying to get _closer_ as his whole body siezes up. It feels like getting punched and he hasn't come this hard in _years_. It takes actual physical effort to loosen his arms from around her waist. He drops back to the wrecked bed, his hands starfished over as much of her back as he can touch. His pulse is a painful pressure in his ears for several seconds, but that tapers off quickly and he can hear her harsh breathing sync up with the motion of her back under his hands.

She's sprawled mostly boneless over his chest, her slowing breath and the gentle movement of her fingers on his neck are the only signs of life from her. Bob can feel the tiny aftershock spasms racing through her from where he's still inside of her and it sort of makes him wish he could get hard again, but he's not seventeen anymore and he has a feeling he's going to need to conserve as much energy as possible if he's going to survive the next two days.

He knows he needs to deal with the condom before it becomes an issue, but he also knows he _never_ wants to lose the feeling of Trish over him and around him. After another couple of minutes, though, he doesn't really have a choice about moving and slides his hands up the soft skin of her back to tangle in her hair, "Hey."

Trish hums a low, lazy response and rubs the side of her face against his chest, pushing her head back into the impromptu scalp massage he's started. She tips her face up and he leans forward to meet her, kissing softly before he lets his hands wander down to her ribcage and push her up a few inches.

"We've got to move."

Trish sighs and sits up enough for Bob to get a hold of the bottom of the condom before sliding completely off of him and collapsing face down next to him on the bed. Bob gets up on shaky legs and stumbles into the bathroom to clean up a little. Trish is under the sheets when he gets back, a pillow over her head and apparently dead to the world, but she turns onto her side when he slips into the bed and scoots over until she's pressed up against him.

She pokes and prods at him until he's arranged to her satisfaction, then she drapes herself over him, wiggling until she's mostly on top of him and her head is tucked under his chin. Bob sinks back into the pillows, ready for a short nap before maybe ordering some room service.

"Tired."

It's hard for Bob to tell from her inflection if Trish is asking him if he's tired or telling him she's tired, but his answer is the same either way, "Yeah."

She giggles around a yawn, "Oldster."

"Hey, none of that." Bob jostles her just enough get a pinch to his hip in retaliation, "I'm saving my strength."

He can feel her smirk against his skin and then she bites him gently, "You're just lucky I didn't pack my strap-on."

"Jesus!" Bob actually twitches at the jolt of arousal that flashes through him at the thought of Trish fucking him, "You're going to kill me."

"Nah," Trish laughs again before settling back down, exhaustion obviously creeping over both of them, "You're tough."

***

The first time Bob tells Trish he loves her, she smiles up at him and says it right back.

***

Epilogue: WATER

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" Trish stops in front of MCR's bus and crosses her arms to block Andy's path. He'd hijacked her from GarageBand this morning as soon as Pete and Joe had left to find someplace to walk Hemmy.

"All will be revealed in due time, young Jedi." Andy gestures towards the keypad, "Now use the Force to unlock the door."

Trish rolls her eyes and keys in the entry code, talking over her shoulder as she starts up the stairs, "You are a gigantic nerd."

"Let she who has not started a flame war at starwars.com cast the first stone, Patricia."

"Fuck off, Hurley, you know I was totally right - " Trish stops in her tracks when she realizes all of MCR is crowded around the top of the stairs, everyone but Bob looking sort of giddy. "Uh. Hey, guys."

Andy gently pushes her forward a little and scoots past her to sit at the kitchenette table. Everyone else takes this as a sign and they settle down wherever there's room, looking expectantly at Andy.

Trish settles in Bob's lap and brushes a quick kiss over his cheek, "What the hell is going on?"

Bob shifts a little, getting comfortable under her weight and slings his arm around her knees, "I have no idea. Gerard just told me to be here at eleven and not to tell Pete or Joe."

A banging interrupts them and Trish realizes it was Andy, "Why do you have a gavel?"

Andy grins, "I now call this inaugural meeting of WATER* to order..."

* Wentz And Trohman Eternal Romance (Andy isn't allowed to create any acronyms either.)

THE END

 

OUTTAKE: After the aborted handjob

carleton97 wrote: Woot! Is it wrong that Pete knowing how long it takes Trish to get off is the best thing in my head right now?

exitsign wrote: Like he's TIMED HER. And she knows because of the time he popped up OUT OF NOWHERE, all teeth and giddy eyes, because she'd "beat [her] record!"

carleton97 wrote: Oh, Pete fucking Wentz. "I never knew girls could come so fast! Seriously."

exitsign wrote: "You're magic. Even your pussy is magic."

carleton97 wrote: And it's like her brain stalled out. Like, what do you even say to that? "thanks?" "I'm going to beat you to death with this sex toy?" what?

And there's NO WAY she can get back at him because he would WELCOME her a) watching him jerk off b) timing it c) TAPING it and d) letting the world see it.

exitsign wrote: Exactly. Like, by not doing it, that's pretty much all she can do. She knows he totally, like, hams it up just in case. The thought is pretty amusing.

carleton97 wrote: Yes! As if she's HIDING in the closet or some shit. Though she's contemplated paying Dirty to do just that. And burst out at an inopportune moment.

exitsign wrote: kjjkldlkdjlkj Like just when he's making that hitchy sound, the one that sounds like he's about to sneeze. WHAT. THEY LIVED IN A VAN.

carleton97 wrote: She needs to talk to someone sane. But she can only find Joe. And she tries to explain but he's all, "you beat your record? Wow!"

exitsign wrote: AHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAH BECAUSE OF COURSE THEY TALK ABOUT IT. OF COURSE THEY DO.

carleton97 wrote: They do! PETE HAS A CHART! He also keeps track of her cycle on it because that is just self-preservation.

exitsign wrote: the first time she sees that shit, she nearly loses her mind.

carleton97 wrote: She never really thought the whole rage killing thing was a decent alibi, but, oh, it totally is. She also didn't think it was physically possible to see red, either.

exitsign wrote: Oh, Pete has made her see the fucking RAINBOW. I love Pete so much. Even when we make him this freakish skeevey douche, I love him.

exitsign wrote: The record Pete totally does NOT know about is total # of orgasms in a session. Because she saves that shit for hotels.

carleton97 wrote: I'm imagining Trish and Bob leaving the room after Pete's interruption and Bob is all, "How does Pete know - "

"Bus. He keeps a chart." She's BRIGHT RED, but isn't going to lie to him.

"A... chart? He times you?" Bob is totally boggled. Who DOES that?

"Among other things."

"What other -" and she gives him a look like, 'what *else* would you keep on a chart for a woman. "Oh."

And they're both, like, mortally embarrassed. Dying with it. Full body blushing. but then Trish laughs because, come on. It's ridiculous. Plus they're almost to the area with other people, so she says, "I save this for hotels, so Pete doesn't know, but I can go nine times in a row."

And then she scampers off.

exitsign wrote: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA I LOVE IT. I imagine her pulling a trucker hat down further, sort of half smiling and SO EMBARRASSED, and just kind of blurting it out before running off. NO EYE CONTAAAAAACT.

carleton97 wrote: YES, EXACTLY.

Like, she wanted to give him *something* that Pete hadn't had first, you know? Not like she owed him or anything lame like that, but... like a gift.

Because Pete was pretty much hanging around outside the door when she lost her virginity. And the first time she slept with a girl. And when she had the stomach flu and was terrified she was pregnant.

exitsign wrote: Pete is like this really unstable ROCK in her life. He's like the fucking boulder on pebbles in every road runner cartoon. He's always there when you need him. To... flip over and over with you as you fall down into the canyon together. Whatever. You get the point.

carleton97 wrote: Precisely. And Bob mostly gets that. He gets that Pete is this gigantic part of her life and her past. Mostly. It's sometimes hard not to be jealous of him. but then Bob remembers the time he saw Trish tackle Pete and punch him in the mouth when he wiped a booger on her.

exitsign wrote: AAHAHAHAAHAHA OH PETE, YOU BOY.

carleton97 wrote: Like, by this point, I think there's very little, if anything, sexual between Trish and Pete. I mean, she's seen him pay to teabag dudes. She really can't imagine that sexing her anymore.

Though there are times when she gets lyrics that she *loves* Pete so much it hurts her a little.

 

OUTTAKE: The first time Bob wakes up with Pete Wentz in his bed

carleton97: He just loves touching her, right? Like, he's never been standoffish with the people he's dated, but he's never felt the urge to just be this affectionate, either. It sort of freaks him out when he thinks about it.

exitsign: All I have is hands, dude. Oh god, I love their stupid dorky faces.

carleton97: He's just glad they both feel the same way about pet names - as in they hate them with every fiber of their beings - because he knows he'd totally slip and call her 'baby' or something and it's bad enough the times he's woken up and found fucking Wentz in bed with them.

exitsign: AHAHAHAHHAAHAHAHAAAAH Like he wakes up, and it's all warm contentment, and he reaches over to pull her up closer against him, and gets Pete's naked hip in his hand. AND HAS TO BLEACH THAT HAND. LIKE, WITH ACTUAL BLEACH.

carleton97: He may, in fact, scream like a girl and scramble out of bed. Which brings Trish rushing in from the bathroom, a little toothpaste around her mouth. And wakes Pete up enough to pull his pajama pants up higher and stretch over the whole bed before curling up into a tiny ball and making grabby hands at Trish. She steps over Bob and sits on the edge of the bed. Pete worms over until he can get his head on her leg and starts whispering - singing almost - the words from the crumpled piece of paper he's pulled from his pocket. Trish is nodding and scratching her fingers through his hair when Bob drops a kiss on her shoulder and goes to shower.

exitsign: It's, like, half disturbing and half adorable. Okay, 90% disturbing and 10% adorable. And all the adorable is Trish-related and totally not to do with Wentz because dude is A FREAK.

But whatever.

He knew this shit when he signed up.

carleton97: Exactly!

And it totally gets him blown in the shower once Trish has sent Pete back to his room.

exitsign: It's like sorry about my weird best friend and thanks for dealing with my weird best friend all at once. Except, like, without words. Because it's rude to talk with your mouth full.

 

OUTTAKE: The first time Trish sees Bob's baby pictures.

carleton97 wrote: I like to imagine that Bob had a late growth spurt, so he was just this tiny, gorgeous child for the longest time. Long enough that other boys started picking on him and shit. So once he grew and got a little chubby, he just thought, 'fuck yeah! no more harassment!' So he shaved his head and grew out his beard and generally became badass. Then along came MCR and he lost weight and his hair got long and a bajillion teenage girls started trying to take his picture.

exitsign wrote: OH HOW FAR YOU'VE COME, BOB BRYAR. AND FOR NOTHING.

carleton97 wrote: I love that so much! I want pictures of tiny bob! HE WAS ALWAYS THE ANGEL AT THE CHURCH CHRISTMAS PAGEANT.

exitsign wrote: khjasjkhakljasdklajsldkj omg Trish. Totally. Trish totally turns to jelly at the picture of angelic baby Bob. She expected, like, him to have been this dirty little badass. Possibly with a beard. Even as a child, he might have had a beard. BUT NO. HE IS AN ANGEL. HER OVARIES ARE LIKE "KABOOM."

carleton97 wrote: YESSSSSSSSS...

Frank shows her because, well, he had Ms. Bryar send him a copy in case he ever needed some heavy duty blackmail. But one day he and Trish were just hanging out, waiting for Bob to get back from his doctor's appointment for his stupid wrists and talking about growing up blah blah and he's all, "oh! I bet you've never seen this!" Like, not trying to be a douche, but more like, hey, your boyfriend is all private and shit and you haven't met his mom yet, so here.

Trish never really thought she'd want kids, but that picture was like an instant shock to her biological clock. For a minute, she was all, "we can take a couple years off from touring. Totally."

exitsign wrote: SO. MANY. PERFECT. BLOND. BABIES.

carleton97 wrote: It's like a marquee running over her face because Frank nearly sprains something laughing and he starts singing "Trish and Bob, sitting in a tree..." until she kicks him in the hip.

exitsign wrote: It leaves an awesome bruise. He shows everyone. "Hey, Mikey, come look at this bruise Trish gave me when I was mocking her for totally wanting to have Bob's babies!"

"Ooh, I want to see! Why are you just showing Mikey?"

"Because he loves me more."

"Shut the fuck up. Don't even say shit like that to me."

"LOOK AT MY BRUISE, YOU GUYS. GOD."

carleton97 wrote: And Bob comes in and is all, "Why are Frank's pants around his knees and where is my girlfriend?"

exitsign wrote: lasjlkjasklj oh Bob. He's totally desensitized to the weird shit his guys get up to. HORRIFIED BY TRISH SEEING HIS KID PICTURE, Y/N?

carleton97 wrote: Right, so frank bounces (literally) up to him, all hanging out in the breeze and hugs him.

"Oh, god. GET OFF ME!" And Bob is like scrambling back, but frank is like a monkey and just cackling because he's got his arms around bob's chest and he's wrapped his ankles around one leg, so he's not going anywhere. (Oh, god, the image of his bare ass just hanging out as he clings to Bob is KILLING ME).

Finally Bob relents and just stands there, looking up at the ceiling, wanting to DIE. "Where is Trish?"

"I showed her your baby pictures and she went off to imagine a million little bryar babies."

Bob sort of doesn't hear that last part because he's so focused on the first, "Where did you get baby pictures?"

"Your mom sent me copies. Duh."

And he really should have expected that given the way Frank had STARED at the Wall of Fame at his mom's house last year when they all stopped by. He'd been fascinated by teeny, tiny uber blond Bob. He's not exactly enraged, but he's not calm either. Sharing pictures is weird for him. He's got to really feel it to let someone in like that.

He was planning on swinging by his Mom's with Trish when they got to Chicago next week.

So he's sort of mad Frank took that away from him and does some sort of ninja move where he gets his arms between Frank and his own body, grabs him by the armpits and sort of heaves him onto Ray.

Who squeals and flails because, "Jesus fuck, Frankie! Get that out of my face!"

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LiveJournal


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